


Tartan Wrapping Paper

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (it happens when you've known each other forever), M/M, Other, aziraphale made a grand gesture and just...assumed it worked, but crowley is very good at making grand gestures and not so good at recognizing them, i do apologize if i've got it wrong, implications of something more than just family right there at the end, in his defense it was particularly vague, neither of them are actually mad, some discussions about tartan, some light argument, they just...cut each other off a lot, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 13 for the advent calendar of prompts.It turns out Crowley might not have understood a grand gesture the way Aziraphale intended, all those years ago.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 42
Kudos: 312





	Tartan Wrapping Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the lovely tartan meta by bluebandedagate on tumblr [here](https://bluebandedagate.tumblr.com/post/187971072711/a-discourse-on-tartan)

Crowley is bored.

Aziraphale is wrapping presents for the humans they had (sort of) befriended during Armageddon’t - he’s kept in touch with most of them, anyway. Crowley has, too, even if he insists on calling Anathema ‘book girl’ just to wind the angel up. Having people around who are aware of their…unique circumstances…is actually sort of nice, although Crowley refuses to admit anything of the sort. Out loud, at least.

Aziraphale is wrapping presents the human way, by _hand_ , in preparation for their planned meet up in Tadfield tomorrow afternoon. He is entirely focused on this task, intent on getting each parcel wrapped just so, which means Crowley - who had miracled his own parcels into paper and ribbon to avoid the hassle - is _bored_.

So it’s really not his fault when he goes poking about the shop.

It’s not an unusual occurrence; Crowley pokes about in the shop all the time. Aziraphale particularly enjoys that habit, lately, as Crowley has taken to lurking around corners and unsettling aspiring customers until they decide to leave, which leaves Aziraphale free to switch the sign to closed, and spend the rest of the day doing whatever they like instead of playing very badly at running a bookshop. There’s some new things to poke about with, though; for the first time in - well, in history, really - Aziraphale has indulged in a tree for the shop. Previous years he’d worried it would make the shop too welcoming, encourage passers by to stop in or browsing customers to stay, but with Crowley doing his demonic best, that’s less of a problem than it usually would be.

So he - they - indulged in a tree, which was set up (by hand) and decorated (by hand) and generally handled in a very non-celestial, non-demonic way, and sometime between setting it up the previous day and now, presents have appeared underneath. 

Presents aren’t a new indulgence. _Wrapped_ presents, on the other hand, tied with ribbon and held in suspense until a particular day, _are_. Crowley is particularly proud of the way the matte black paper and red ribbon looks under the spreading boughs of the evergreen, settled and arranged just so on the plush skirt.

Interspersed amidst the delightfully dramatic parcels, however, is a collection of boxes all wrapped in -

“ _Tartan_ ,” he grouses at Aziraphale as he passes the desk. The angel hums a vaguely inquiring note. “Honestly, angel, I know you love the bloody stuff, but tartan wrapping paper? Really?”

“Tartan is stylish,” comes the absentminded reply, and Crowley collapses dramatically across the sofa.

“It’s _not_ stylish, it’s -” he glances over, gets a look at the half-finished pile of parcels, stares at them for a second. Sweeps his gaze across the neatly folded wrapping paper just waiting to be used at Aziraphale’s elbow, the ribbons and bows too. None of them are tartan. There isn’t even _plaid_.

“Are you - are you only using the tartan on _me_?” He swings himself off the sofa to stalk towards the desk, accusing. “A dozen boxes there and all in solid colors - am I the only one you’ve inflicted the bloody tartan on?”

“Of course, dear.” The answer comes over a distracted shoulder as Aziraphale manipulates a crease just so, tapes the fold into place. “They’re not family.”

Crowley stumbles mid-step as the floor sways underneath him. “They - what.”

“They’re not family,” he repeats, still a little absently as he twitches the ribbons into place, curls them with a quick miracle. “Plus they’ve families of their own, we can’t simply add them to ours. At least, not without talking about it first. I’d want your approval, of course.”

Crowley is aware he is standing about three steps away from the desk, keeping perfectly still, but it feels as if reality has been shifted underneath his feet, and he can’t seem to make his legs work. Or his brain, for that matter.

“My - my approval.”

It’s not a question. Aziraphale answers anyway, twitching another box into the perfect center of an unfolded square of wrapping paper, this time a shimmering gold. “Yes. I know it’s probably not a requirement - nearly impossible, I’d suspect, with the larger clans - but as it’s just the two of us, I wouldn’t feel right making the decision without your input.” He hums for a second, tapes a corner into place. “I’m not entirely certain it would be right, or - or necessary, anyway.”

“Necessary.”

“Well, as they all already have families, they don’t need - but you know this, Crowley.”

“Do I?” He wonders, a little surprised that it came out as a question instead of a disbelieving parroted phrase. 

Aziraphale turns in the chair to face him, bewildered. “Of course you do, it’s - I know opinions on use are more relaxed than all that, but there is something powerful about gifting someone with the family tartan. It may not mean anything to _them_ , but I - it would feel like adopting them into your family, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Crowley answers slowly. “I haven’t got -”

“Of course you do, it’s - we -”

There is a look of realization dawning on the angel’s face, and something far more unspeakable blossoming in Crowley’s chest.

“Do you mean to say,” Aziraphale says carefully, “that is - all this time, and you didn’t know?”

Equally carefully, as if the thing unfolding in his ribcage might shatter if he dares speak too loudly or too fast, Crowley asks, “Know what?”

Eyes bright and suspiciously misty, Aziraphale blinks at him. His mouth does something complicated that seems like it’s trying to be a smile and a frown and an apology all at once. “Oh, my dear.”

“Know what, Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats. His heart - that was the unfolding thing, it must have been, as it’s about three sizes too big for his chest, now - is a thundering beast inside the glass cage of his ribs. “What was I supposed to know?”

“That I - that - that we’re family.”

How is his heart so loud? How is it still nestled inside his spun glass ribs, when it’s pounding so powerfully he can’t help but sway in time? Aziraphale must notice, finally; he stands from the chair. Takes one small step forward, another, holds his hands out as if to catch Crowley’s runaway heart once it inevitably makes good its escape.

“How long?”

“Well, I - I do think we’ve been family for a very long time,” the angel answers. His hands drop down to worry at the threadbare edges of his waistcoat. “Although it did take me a shamefully long time to admit it to myself, and even longer to -”

“How _long_?” How long has he been blundering along, unaware of this? Assuming…?

“How - oh. I thought we - I - made it official in…” Aziraphale trails off, mist bright eyes dropping to the floor while his fingers pluck at loose threads. “I presumed, rather, and I’m terribly sorry -”

“How. _Long_.”

“1967,” comes the quiet, half-ashamed reply, as the angel fidgets under Crowley’s gaze.

“The holy water?” There’s some symbolism, he has to admit, to the idea; they’d had their biggest and worst fight over the holy water, and handing it over was a sort of apology, now that he thinks about it. There was something of the ‘our side’ feeling to it, even if it took the angel another half century to fully come around.

“The - _no_ ,” Aziraphale replies, blue eyes snapping back to ochre in astonishment. “We were just - the thermos.”

A beat -

And Crowley bursts out laughing.

“The - the _thermos_? You - you thought the thermos would tell me -”

“It was _tartan_ ,” Aziraphale retorts pointedly. “ _Mine_ , and I thought you _knew_ what gifting it like that would mean -”

“How could I possibly -”

“You’ve spent twice as much time as I have in Scotland!”

“That’s not - that’s not how that _works_ ,” Crowley manages, flinging his arms wide in disbelief. “I spent my time causing trouble! I got an entire _name_ outlawed for a hundred and fifty years, why would I have learned anything about symbols of - of family, and unity, and how was I supposed to know it was _your_ tartan, anyway? ’S not like there was a label on!”

“Well I’d been _wearing_ it for some time by then, and -”

“You wear everything for centuries, angel! The length of time something stays in your wardrobe is hardly helpful. You’ve had that waistcoat for going on two hundred years now, am I supposed to -”

Aziraphale throws his hands up in exasperation. “Tartan is _different_ , Crowley, you must know that! You must have picked up _some_ understanding of the culture while you were causing all that trouble. Or so I thought!”

“So you, what, concocted some subtle grand gesture and expected me to know what it meant?”

“Oh, that’s _rich_ ,” Aziraphale snorts. “As if you haven’t spent our entire time on Earth carrying out a multitude of grand gestures!”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue, but he’s never lied to the angel before; it would be a waste to start now. Instead what emerges is an accusatory, “You _knew_?”

“Of course I _knew_ , Crowley, I’m not an idiot!”

“You didn’t _say_ anything!”

“It wasn’t _safe_ ,” the angel retorts. “When I finally realized that you asking for holy water wasn’t you attempting to _leave me_ -”

“Wait, you thought -”

“- but instead a security measure to _stay_ -”

“Hold on -”

“- then I thought to myself, ‘oh, surely he’ll understand! Crowley is clever! He’s been speaking in subtext for centuries! He’ll know _exactly_ what I can’t say!’”

Crowley can’t help the grin on his face. “You think I’m clever.”

“Clearly I was mistaken,” Aziraphale huffs, but there’s laughter in his eyes, a quirk to his mouth.

“Oh, clearly. Only an idiot would fail to realize you handing me a thermos full of holy water - _which I’d asked for_ \- in a tartan print we had never once discussed, _at all_ , until this exact moment, actually meant you were accepting me into your family. It was so _blindingly_ obvious.”

“Well, laid out like that it sounds absurd,” Aziraphale allows. Crowley gestures pointedly at him, but he can’t stop smiling; Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but the promise of a smile at the edges of his mouth has resolved itself into something full and bright.

They both fight not to laugh, and lose terribly.

“We’re idiots,” Aziraphale manages some breathless minutes later, settling back into his chair.

“We’re idiots,” Crowley agrees. He paces back to sprawl across the sofa again. “And we’re…family.”

“We’re family,” Aziraphale confirms. He smiles warmly, holding Crowley’s gaze for a long moment, and then returns to his parcel pile, unfolds another square of solid paper - red, this time.

Crowley basks in the feeling for a long while as Aziraphale tends to the last of the gifts. It’s a warm, syrupy thing, spreading through his limbs and making him feel oddly light, as if a stray breeze might lift him up and carry him off. Millennia of grand gestures, and the angel knew. _Knows_. They’re family. They’re - hang on, it’s just the two of them -

“We’re practically married,” he muses aloud.

Aziraphale’s answer is absent but warm, voice still full of smile as he replies over his shoulder, “Yes, although I’d still like to be asked properly.”

At least this time, when the angel knocks reality out from under Crowley’s feet, he’s already sitting down.


End file.
